A False Life, a Real Story
by frogandrabbitsox
Summary: War is brooding between the US and Europe. Matthew was convinced that everyone he loved was gone. Until he spies a suspicious looking man following. Soon, he finds out that most of his life was a lie; who his friends were, what their relationship was, and what the war seems to be about. Can Matthew and his friends stop the war before it is too late? AU, PruCan
1. Chapter 1

Another sad fic. This is not finished yet!

* * *

Tears slowly trickled down his face, making a puddle on the cold fabric. His bloodshot eyes were covered with puffy eyelids, not wanting to look outside. His clothes were full of recent tears, rips, and holes. His hands were wet with salt water. His damp, blonde hair hung limply. However, one strand of hair would not relax. It never did.

The bed was too cold without someone there to comfort him. The lamp was still on, as it has been for a month. Objects cast strange shadows across the dull, gray wall, reminding the broken man about things he never wanted to see again. He wriggled and gasped for breaths of air before surrendering to a dark silence once again.

He gasped again and again, trying to hold the tears back, trying to fight the pain, trying all he could to never think about it, although the evidence was right in front of him.

The man immediately lunged at the paper by the nightstand and glared at it, his hands trembling, his tears making new stains among the rusty red ones.

Of course, he thought, the news would never change. What has been done can not be reversed. What has come can not go back. What is right can never be wrong.

The crinkled, bloodstained paper was a little scrap of newspaper that clearly said a few words. A few ghastly words. The man's eyes widened as he read the paper again and again.

OFFICER JONES, A MEMORABLE MAN, DIED IN COMBAT

_Officer Alfred F Jones has died after his plane has been shot down over the ocean. No wreckage has been found in the spot where witnesses stated the plane had fallen into. A-_

The rest were blurred and covered in blood. It was too painful. Another gone. Father Francis was in a coma. Arthur was having a mental breakdown. Gilbert was captured and lost. Who knew if he died? Who knew what was going on?

He reached out to find his bear, only to remember that he had mysteriously vanished from his house. Kumajirou must have been scared. Of course, he thought, How could he not be with an owner such as I?

The man started shaking. Tears streamed onto the already soaked blankets. He looked pale and thin and unable to move to his will. Instinctively, he reached into his pillowcase to find the knife he had put there. The knife was gone.

"_Birdie, I don't wanna have you hurt yourself. You have to promise me this: killing yourself is not a solution. Remember, there are people that need you, like the awesome me!"_

_Gilbert took the knife and threw it out. His laughter and smile lit up the other man's world. The man knew. He would keep his promise. He would do anything for Gilbert._

He struggled to breathe. He still felt shackled by the rusty, painful chains of the promise and the memories that it brought.

_Remember, there are people that need you_

That line echoed inside his head louder and louder every time. He almost felt amused. No one needs him. No one loves him any more. Gilbert was far away, separated from him forever. In the beginning, no one even bothered to notice him, except for that one albino with his trademark laugh. Gilbert was his beginning. Gilbert was his hope. Gilbert was the candle in the dark. When that was taken away, nothing was left. The people he also loved dearly could not love him back. He was alone.

Where was everyone when he needed them the most?

Matthew let the already-leaking dams burst and cried himself to a long, painful sleep.

To be continued... to the next chapter.


	2. The expected plot twist

Light seeped through the shades, illuminating the objects strewn on the dirty floor. It was also aimed at Matthew's expressionless face.

Matthew sat up, barely drowsy looking. His hair was mussed up into a blonde mess, his eyes were a dull violet, and eyelids were slightly puffy and wet. Matthew crawled out of the bed as he tore clothes out of the closet. A jacket came loose and landed on the floor in a heap. He stared at it, until he realized the importance of the old, worn, stitched jacket. Gilbert's jacket. Matthew clutched his head as everything came back. Alfred is dead. Gilbert is dead. Arthur is useless. Francis will never wake up again.

_Sirens blared. Lights flashed blue and red, blue and red, making a ghastly yet enchanting light show. People shouted at each other in a language that was incomprehensible. Cars arrived with more and more people. What were they doing here? Why was he-?_

_Oh._

_Oh._

_He realized that below him lay a broken body, blood strewn everywhere and still appearing from the dying life form. Although a sunshine-gold mane covered the face entirely, he could still see it. A face contorted into a expression of slight shock and slight expectation. The bright blue eyes were unfocused and glazed. His stubble was dotted with blood. His lips were still slightly parted, as if they were slowly breathing for air. In his hand was a gun. Blood still oozed from the hole in his leg onto his once-clean business attire. His head seemed to have a dent in it, as if the man was hit by a heavy object._

_Papa Francis was dead._

_Across him lay two men in black masks with some sort of fluid leaking from their head. A gun was still in one man's hand. In the other lay a hammer. _

_Matthew then realized that he was bound onto a pole with whatever covered his eyes pulled off. And slowly and slowly, reality seemed to sink in._

_And just as suddenly, a needle sunk into his arm, and the world became a blur. Everything was mixed into a mush of color and sounds. Matthew could feel himself being unbounded, but all his strength had left him. All he could do was breath lightly. _

_Then the world faded into black._

When he opened his eyes, he realized he was bawling in his hands again. Matthew quickly straightened himself up and angrily brushed the tears from his eyes. There was no use in crying, he thought, Everyone is gone. It's not like I have anything else left.

He grabbed any clothing that he could reach and forced it onto him. Matthew grabbed his wallet and headed to the shopping square.

The Californian sky was to blue. Sky blue, the color that was of Alfred's eyes. An image flashed before his eyes, but Matthew quickly shoved it away. But it was too late. He already saw it. A smoking plane in the water, still on fire. The enemy soldiers firing away. There was no way out. There was no way to escape. Another round of tears stung his dull violet eyes, but he forcefully tucked them away. They are dead, he thought yet again, Crying is not going to bring them back, you moron. He shoved his glasses up his nose and hung his head down, avoiding the bright sunny light that seemed to mock him. Avoiding the happy chatter and laughter of all the clueless people around him. Avoiding all the sniggering jerks that crowded the streets, wasting their lives away. Avoiding the pedestrians with a family, looking at him with a concerned look. Avoiding the funny man in the black cloak trying to stalk him. Matthew just ignored everything. He just wanted everyone to go away.

Light years later, he found himself at the front of the shabby market. As he shuffled in with the rusty shopping cart, Matthew grabbed all the things he could manage to find; chips, soda, instant cup noodles, tomatoes, just everything.

"Heeeey jeeeerk faaaace!"

Matthew did not reply.

"Iiiiiiiit's yoouuu, iiisn't iiiiit, faaaat idiooot! Tryyying tooo geeeeet sooome ooof that Cuuuubaaan iiice creeeaam to tauuunt meeee, eh? Weell, iit aaaaiin't goooonna wooork! Nooow, haaand ooover the iiice creeaam or gooo rooot iiin the Uunderwooorld foreeeeever!"

A sigh escaped his lips. It was "Cuba" as many dubbed him, since he was from Cuba and lived in a Cuban paradise, where everything he ever owned was Cuban. And once again, he had confused him for Alfred, Matthew's obnoxious twin brother that was nothing like him. As with most people, Alfred got on the wrong foot with Cuba in high school, and here was the result.

"I'm Matthew-"

A giant hand swung to punch him. As it came in contact with the Matthew's face, out came blood and a big bruise. The pain seared his mind and forced him to lean against the shopping cart.

"Whaaat's thaaat, braat? Toooo scaaared tooo fiiight? Haaa, thaaat juuust makes thiiiings eveeen eeaasier!" Cuba smiled maliciously and punched him again. Obviously, he didn't ever read the newspaper.

The next blow brought Matthew to his knees. He coughed up a little blood as he held his stomach. The next series of blows exploded in his mind and brought him into a realm of infinite pain and agony. The world was tinged with red. His skin was covered in multicolored bruises. The pain was forcing him to black out.

The Cuban, who was obviously drunk, mercilessly marched forward. He let out a dark chuckle as he held his arms out to throttle him.

It is the end, isn't it, Matthew thought with a sad smile, Oh well, I'm better off dead anyways. No one ever loved me to begin with. And to those who at least tried, they ended their existence horribly. It's all my fault. I'm the demon that hurts all the innocent ones. I deserve to die.

That didn't stop the tears that trickled down his face.

* * *

The world seemed to be a blur, at least to him.

The fat Cuban didn't know what was going on, even after he marched into an alleyway, smoking a large cigar. Not even after he was mysteriously invited into a drinking contest. Not even after he started binge drinking and got drunk.

Cuba blindly stumbled past the pedestrians, who were giving him disapproving glares. There was only one thing on his mind: Alfred F Jones. He was going to give that punk-ass brat a whipping alright. He marched mercilessly in the crowd, trying to find Alfred out of the blue, in the middle of somewhere, scared and frightened to see him.

He loathed him. He loathed that blonde, obnoxious idiot that laughed at everything in the world. He despised his haughty looks and his taunting face. He hated every fiber of his being. He insulted the leader of the biggest gang. And he's not going to get away with it.

The man finally realized that there was going to be no way that he'll ever find Alfred in the middle of a crowd. Scowling, he finally realized how hot the Californian summer is and made his way to the nearest market.

Stumbling upon unseen objects in the blurry world, he managed to enter the run-down market without falling flat on his face. Damn, he thought, Why the heck is everything so blurry? What did I even do? Cuba tripped and clumsily but carefully moved toward the ice cream stand.

And there, he saw him.

That man with the shopping cart. He could see the blonde hair. The glasses. A lock of hair that resembles that curl dubbed "Nantucket". Cuba, through his vague vision, saw Matthew. But, with such blurry eyes, he could only think of one person.

Alfred F Jones. With the Cuban ice cream, taunting him.

Cuba's eyes narrowed. Steam poured out of his ears. He jeered, "Hey, jerk face!" Or at least, he thought that was what he said.

"Alfred" didn't answer. Trying to play cool boy, eh?, Cuba thought, Well, that won't happen much longer.

"It's you, isn't it, fat idiot! Trying to get some of that Cuban ice cream to taunt me, eh? Well, it ain't gonna work! Now, hand over the ice cream or go rot in the Underworld forever!" It came out slurred, but how would he know

Underworld? Why the heck did he just say the Underworld?

"Alfred" managed to utter something out. "I'm-"

Cuba became angrier. Alfred was definitely taunting him! He was the head honcho of the biggest gang around. He wasn't going to be pushed over like this.

He reached out a fist and punched him. Cuba smiled in triumph as he saw blood and a bruise on "Alfred"'s face.

"What's that, brat? Too scared to fight? Ha, that just makes things even easier!" He smiled even wider.

The Cuban punched him mercilessly over and over again, at the places he was always itching to harm: his ugly face, his brainless head, his flabby stomach, and his value-less heart. And some how, he hit them all accurately.

"Alfred" slumped over on his knees. Blood was everywhere. His face expression was one of pain, as far as he could make out. The gang leader could see different blotches, which resembled bruises, which made him very, very pleased.

And now, for the best part.

The man leaned in for the kill, trailing a evil laughter behind him.

* * *

(Both POVs)

Matthew waited. Waited for his death to come.

Cuba could hardly wait. He was this close to killing. THIS close!

Time slowed down. The world was balanced between the two. Life and death were conflicting.

All hell broke loose.

And stopped.

Matthew felt rough fingertips brush his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut. It was coming. And it was inevitable.

But the worse never came.

Instead, he heard a gasp and a jumble of mispronounced words.

Matthew opened his eyes and gasped at what he saw.

A black-hooded figure stood, the exact one that was stalking him, holding Cuba by the neck. Cuba, looking quite shocked, uttered some incomprehensible words, but was quickly shut up by a punch to the head, leaving him unconscious. The figure turned around. In its hands were a white figure and a little yellow sphere.

Matthew could only stare.

Gilbert grinned while holding Kumajirou and Gilbird.

"Hey birdie."

* * *

Yes, a cheesy ending for the chapter.

Thanks to those people who survived reading this.


End file.
